


Rude Interruptions {Johnlock/Mystrade}

by WickedWritings



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, mystrade
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-14
Updated: 2016-12-27
Packaged: 2018-07-23 22:46:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7482858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WickedWritings/pseuds/WickedWritings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On the notion of "brotherly responsibilities," Sherlock decides to embarrass his dear brother Mycroft on his first date with Scotland Yard's finest, Greg Lestrade. While snooping through Greg's phone one day, he discovered the Detective Inspector's seemingly endless conversations with his brother, along with the location of their first informal get-together. And Sherlock just couldn't resist. </p><p>Mycroft may have not seen this coming, but he was no fool. Clearly more perceptive than Sherlock anticipated, he knew of his little brother's "secret" romance with a particular doctor, and also of his plans with a particular silver ring sitting in a velvet box somewhere at 221B Baker Street. And Mycroft knows exactly how to get back at him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> disclaimer: i do not own sherlock or any of its wonderful characters. the brilliants minds named steven moffat and mark gatiss do.

> "No, Watson, this was not done by _accident_ , but by _design_."  
> 
> 
> \- Sherlock Holmes  
> 

 

Mycroft was livid. Absolutely livid. And if there was one thing people needed to know about him, it was that no one, _no one_ , ever crossed him — the most powerful man in Britain, the bloody British government — unless they wanted to disappear off the face of the earth. But of course, that didn't bother one man, who happened to be the most infuriating person known to existence. Sherlock Holmes, his _darling_ little brother, to be exact.

The antagonistic relationship between Mycroft and his younger sibling was stereotypical. They insulted each other relentlessly, and they constantly sought to outwit the other. Mycroft always won, though. He was indeed much smarter than the infamous detective Sherlock Holmes, and never could his brother beat him in deductions. It was a gift, really. Mycroft's uncanny ability to read people and objects in record breaking time was impressive, to say the least. In fact, it was his sharp intellect and nearly infallible composure that secured him a "minor" place in the British government. Lord knows that it wasn't his physical health that made him worthy of his position. He fancied too many plum puddings for that to ever be the case.

Now, Mycroft was used to Sherlock's irritating jabs and rude interruptions in his life, but there was usually a line, a limit, that both of them knew not to cross. It was unspoken, one of the few of its kind between them, and neither of them had stepped past that border since they were in their teens. Sure, they had pushed the boundaries from time to time, but they knew better than to go farther than that. At least, Mycroft assumed they knew that. _Damn that annoying, exasperating little arsehole._

He sighed, massaging his temples with his fingers. _And of course Sherlock had to choose today to cross that line._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> heyo! this is my first johnlock/mystrade fanfic, and i'd really appreciate any constructive criticism you may have for me. i hope you enjoyed the prologue!
> 
> \- rosaline


	2. The First Interruption

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which we learn the reason for mycroft's aggravation with sherlock

> "But on a Wednesday in a cafe, I watched it _begin again._
> 
> \- Taylor Swift, Begin Again  
> 

Staring out into the busy London streets, Mycroft sipped his tea calmly as he anxiously waited for his date ( _Date? Was this considered a date?_ ), who was supposed to arrive in approximately two and half minutes. Probably more, though, seeing as though the police never seemed to catch a break, and Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade would certainly be the busiest of them all. But he didn't mind. He was in government, too, and he understood the immense amount of time that work consumed. _Oh my, what if he doesn't show up? What if he gets caught up at the office? I only barely managed to free up the next two hours, and I don't know when I'll be available again. Good heavens, who knows when he'll be available again,_ he thought worriedly, his anxiety increasing with every sentence. _I do hope he makes it._

Those two and a half minutes passed much quicker than Mycroft had imagined, and soon enough, those two and a half minutes turned to five, and five to ten, and ten to fifteen. He glanced at his pocket watch. _He's twenty minutes late, and he hasn't messaged me yet._ His pulse sped up as he considered the reasons why. _What if he wasn't even planning to show? What if his acceptance of my invitation was just to spare my feelings? Ugh. Feelings. The bloody things. What if he intended to stand me up and claim that work kept him while instead he was just sitting on his couch with a beer watching crap telly? What if he was actually annoyed by all of our conversations, but was too kind to ever say anything about it? What if he didn't return my... infatuation like I had deduced he did?_

Instantly, he felt the weirdest sensation in his chest. It was like a downward tug on his heart, like an anchor had somehow attached itself to the muscle and was attempting to drag it down into his stomach. _It's almost like it's... sinking._ The feeling was not common to the older Holmes, and his breathing hitched for a mere second before he composed himself again. _Ah, so this is what that sinking feeling that the books always mention is._ He cringed. _I hate it._

Another five minutes passed before the bell on the door to the café rang, and a disheveled Gregory Lestrade appeared, seemingly out of breath. Unable to control his impulses, Mycroft gave him a once-over and started deducing. _Hm, his shirt is wrinkled. He always wants to appear neat and clean in front of his team, so that suggests that he spilled something — coffee, most likely — on his shirt near the end of his shift and promptly went to change it with a spare shirt that he kept in his office for when he stayed overnight. His hair is also tousled, which means he ran his fingers through it multiple times. He was probably stressed at work, which caused him to fall asleep at his desk. He then jolted awake thirty minutes ago and knocked over his beverage, ruining his shirt. The slight circular indents on his forehead prove this conclusion, as he was probably lying on his arm, technically his wrist, while he slept, the buttons on his barrel cuff pressing against his temple. The black smudges on the side of his right hand show that he was doing a rather ghastly amount of paperwork. This was probably why he was late in leaving. His coat isn't drenched, despite the downpour outside. It looks like he tried to take a cab, but the heavy rain resulted in increased traffic, and he jumped out of the vehicle and ran to get here himself. The dirt splatters on his shoes reinforce this theory, along with his heavy breathing. Finally, his coat pocket is bulging more than usual, which means that he has more cash in his wallet. Oh my, he wants to pay for dinner._ The Detective Inspector scoured the crowd and smiled when he saw Mycroft sitting in the corner of the shop. _As if I'd let a fine man like him pay._

*

Walking up to the most influential man in Britain's government was as intimidating as it sounds, but not for the obvious reason that others may think it to be. Unlike the general population, Greg knew there was more to "The Iceman" than meets the eye. It really shouldn't have, but it took a discerning eye to see the genuine care that the older Holmes had for his younger brother Sherlock. And quite frankly, Mycroft's begrudging attitude towards admitting his fondness for his sibling was simply adorable in Greg's eyes. _Adorable? You sound like a bloody fool, Lestrade. Pull yourself together._

Greg could barely do that, though. Mycroft's eyes were trained on him, analyzing his every move, and Greg desperately fought the blush creeping up on his cheeks. He had ducked his head after giving Mycroft a small grin when he entered, and he snuck a peek at the stoic redhead. _Crap._ Mycroft was still staring at him, and this time, Greg couldn't stop the light scarlet that took over his face. He groaned when he saw the triumphant smirk on Mycroft's lips. _Christ, it's our first date (right?), and I'm acting like a blushing school girl._ Taking the seat across from the man who held a "minor" position in the British government (and possibly a major position in his life), he sent an apologetic look in Mycroft's direction.

"Crikey, Mycroft, I'm so sorry. I know I said that I'd be a few minutes late, but I never expected to be about half an hour late and—"

"Twenty minutes. You're twenty minutes tardy," Mycroft corrected.

Greg rolled his eyes. "Always the perfectionist. Anyway, I apologize for not being here on time. I... I've just had a shite day." The D.I. sighed before continuing, "But you already knew that, didn't you?"

Mycroft's silence confirmed this, and Greg exhaled loudly before putting a smile on his face and gazing right back at Mycroft. "Sorry. Never mind me. Let's talk about you. How are you, Mr. Iceman? Any interesting criminals that you've recently detained?"

"Oh Gregory, we both know that I can't go into detail about that. However, I can say that I have indeed captured a few wanted members of an international drug cartel today. Caught them while they tried to hide in Scotland (Iverness to be exact), and the rest is history," Mycroft said, ending with a lazy flourish of his hand. He may have fibbed some parts (he didn't get all of the criminals today), but Greg didn't need to know that. He just wanted to show off a tad. Okay, maybe a lot more than a tad, but the look of awe and wonder on Greg's face was incredible. No one had ever looked at him like he was the most fascinating creature on the planet, and while it did make him a bit uncomfortable, it left an unusually warm feeling in his heart. _I might be able to get used to this._

"That's... You're... Amazing! Blimey, that's pretty damn impressive!" Greg sputtered, the praises leaving his mouth before he could even process what he was saying.

Mycroft rolled his eyes, pretending that he didn't enjoy the attention in the slightest. "Dear God, Gregory, don't flatter me. If you continue to put me on a pedestal every time that I tell you about my cases, I might begin to call you John." At this, Greg snorted and laughed at the comparison. It didn't take long for Mycroft to join in. After all, Greg's laugh was as beautiful as it was contagious. It was like a breath of fresh air, reviving him from his normally emotionless state and granting him access to feelings he hadn't experienced in a very long time.

"Well, we don't want that happening now, do we?" Greg asked jokingly, the right corner of his mouth tugging upwards into a playful crooked smile that Mycroft was _so_ not prepared for. Greg was always so professional (semi-professional at least) in the police station, and never in his years of being acquainted with him had he seen the Detective Inspector truly smile. _He must be very comfortable around me then. Given his past, he doesn't seem like the type to easily open up to people. We have been messaging each other for a while, but talking on our mobiles isn't the same as speaking face to face. Maybe he did really return my affections. My God, I sound like a fool._

"That we do not," Mycroft agreed with a nod. The table got awfully quiet after that, the awkward silence making the two men fidget in their seats. Thankfully, a middle aged man with a beard came up to them, menus in hand, and gently set the laminated pieces of cardstock in front of them.

"Greg," the man said, patting the detective on the back. "It's nice to see you again, mate."

"It's nice to see you, too. Have you been accused of any more crimes as of late?" Greg shot back teasingly.

"Of course not! After that last one, I gave up on thieving. If Sherlock hadn't cleared my name, I'd be rotting away in a jail cell for the rest of my life."

Mycroft's eyes widened at the mention of his little brother, and he decided it was his time to butt into the conversation. "Sherlock Holmes?"

"Bloody genius he is," the man continued. "He proved that I didn't commit a triple homicide a few years back. I wonder how he's doing now. He hasn't been here since he came with that blonde a while back. What was his name? Jack... Jim... John... Yes! John. That was the bloke's name. Mighty cute pair they were."

"Gosh," Greg said, embarrassed that he forgot about Mycroft presence. "I'm sorry, Mycroft. This is Angelo. Angelo, this is Mycroft Holmes. He's Sherlock's brother."

Angelo stuck his hand out to Mycroft, who gave it a firm shake. With a polite smile on, Mycroft covertly inspected Angelo when the bearded man went back to chatting with Greg. _His shirt is ironed and his dress pants don't have any wrinkles. He clearly takes his job very seriously. Either that or he's the owner of the place. Or both._ He considered for a moment. _Probably both. The callus on the base of his forefinger suggests that he's a chef. His tied up hair also confirms this, but if that were the case, he wouldn't be out here serving us. The restaurant is full, and they'd definitely need their cook in the kitchen during this time. I wonder..._

"So, Greg, what are you having? Don't worry about the prices. Everything is on the house, for you and your date."

Greg and Mycroft's head turned to each other, their eyes filled with panic and unasked questions. They hadn't determined if their meeting was a date or not, but they kept silent. Greg cleared his throat and ordered the roast beef while Mycroft ordered the soup. Greg's eyebrow might've touched his hairline when he heard Mycroft's request.

"Soup? That's it?" Greg asked in a concerned voice.

"Diet," was all Mycroft said, and the sense of finality in his answer made Greg drop the subject. _Diet? Why? He's not the overly muscular kind, but he certainly isn't fat. Why would he ever need to go on a diet? He's handsome, and even though he hates "legwork," he could most likely hand me my arse on one of his expensive silver platters._

"Okay, mates. I'll have your orders ready in ten minutes. And I'll get a candle for the table. It's more romantic," Angelo announced with a wink, walking off in the direction of the kitchen before either of them could say "no."

The awkward silence returned, and Mycroft avoided eye contact with the man across from him. But Greg, on the other hand, was the complete opposite. He stared at Mycroft, trying to deduce him like the older Holmes could. It was a challenge, seeing as though Mycroft was mysterious and without any obvious incriminating tells, but he knew that Mycroft was guarded. He was like his brother in that way. They both detested being vulnerable, and they closed themselves off when their walls were threatened. _Should I ask if this is a date or not? Would he tell me the truth or stay unresponsive? And what if he just viewed me as a friend as saw this as completely platonic?_ Weighing his options carefully, he groaned internally. _Oh fuck it._

"Mycroft," Greg said, his wavering tone making him cringe. _What's the worst he can say? No?_ "Would you... Is this... Um... I mean... Fuck..."

"Is this what, Gregory?" Mycroft questioned, not unaware of what Greg was trying (and failing) to ask, but too scared to say it.

"Bloody hell, Holmes, is this a date or not?" Greg got out, the words tumbling into the air between them in a frantic, rushed sequence. Mycroft sighed and opened his mouth, but a voice cut in.

"Of course it is, Gavin. I doubt you could be daft enough to not know that."

Their heads whipped to the tall, dark haired nuisance standing before them. Sherlock had a candle in hand, and he placed it on the table, continuing to talk as he did. "You two obviously fancy each other. It's so bloody obvious. My brother isn't that hard to read, Graham—"

"Greg," The Detective Inspector muttered, but Sherlock ignored him per usual.

"—and you can tell that he feels exactly how you do. His pupils are noticeably dilated, and he's not looking you in the eye. Probably because of his overblown pupils. It doesn't take a scientist to know that his pulse is raised as well. He's also shifting in his seat repeatedly, and he's bouncing his knee. Something very unlike him, mind you. He's either extremely anxious about this or he's fighting off an erection."

"Sherlock!" Mycroft exclaimed, glowering at his brother.

"Oh hush, brother mine. He's doing the exact same thing, so you're fine. And I thought you were smarter than that, Mycroft. How could you not see the signs that he is helplessly infatuated with you? Besides his dilated pupils and somewhat successful attempts at keeping himself unaroused, he wants to pay for dinner, even with his crap salary. I bet you noticed his wallet, but I don't suspect that you knew that he went to the bank right before coming here. The police station isn't that far, brother, and I don't think he would pay for a cab when he could simply walk. Yes, it is raining, but he keeps an umbrella in his office. But anyway, he had a busy day at work, and he had no time to get money during that, so the only time when he could've gone to the bank was right before this lovely dinner you both have planned. He must've taken his umbrella and went to the ATM machine at the bank nearby. But as you know, there was probably a line. He waited impatiently in line, and when he finally got his money, he sprinted here, leaving his umbrella at the machine. Here you go, by the way."

Sherlock produced a black umbrella from behind his back, and Greg snatched it from him, leaning it against his chair. Sherlock droned on, "Let's move on to his appearance, shall we? His normal outfits consist of button-ups and blazers, but today, he opted to wear a suit. Plus, he's wearing a silk tie. Fancy suit, grade A tie – all components of the stereotypical date attire.

"Mycroft Edward Holmes, you imbecile, need I go on? You two are on a date, and you might as well admit it now, or else your relationship will go nowhere."

The duo (and the rest of the restaurant; Sherlock's voice had gotten louder as his deducing progressed) were silent. The ring of Lestrade's phone broke it, and everyone went back to minding their own business while Greg answered the call.

"What?" Greg growled. "Yes... No... Fine... I'll be right there, Donavan."

Over the course of the phone call, Greg had gotten up, put on his coat, and laid down a couple of notes on the table. When he hung up the phone, he turned to Sherlock. "You're coming with me."

"What? Why? I wasn't done. I was going to educate you both on the importance of safe sexual activity. I had a whole speech planned. I even brought you some condoms. They're custom made." Sherlock dug through his coat pocket and displayed the condoms. Mycroft and Greg peered at the packaging.

"'Let me Le-straddle you?' That's the best you could come up with, Sherlock? I'm quite disappointed in you," Mycroft tutted with disdain.

"I have to say, Mycroft, some of these are creative. 'Ride my umbrella' and 'Cover up; We wouldn't want to upset Mummy' are hilarious," Greg disagreed sarcastically.

"The packaging won't matter to you when you're fucking him into oblivion, brother mine. Now, Gavin—"

"Greg," Greg corrected with frustration. Sherlock waved his hand dismissively.

"—what is this urgent matter that is preventing me from further embarrassing my brother?"

"Double homicide. Portobello Road. You might want to call—"

"Sherlock? What in God's name are you doing? You said you were just going to check in on Angelo." Greg gaped at the new arrival. John stood a few steps away from them, tapping his foot in an agitated manner while he glared at his partner.

"Just completing some brotherly responsibilities, John," Sherlock replied quickly, keeping his focus on Mycroft and Greg. John then took notice of the other two men and gave them a confused glance.

"Mycroft? Greg? What are you lot doing here?" John asked.

"They're just learning about safe se—"

"Nothing of your concern, John. But there is a double homicide on Portobello Road, and we need both of your expertise on the situation," Greg chimed in, interrupting Sherlock.

"Then why are we standing here? Let's go, Sherlock," John said, gripping Sherlock's sleeve in his hand and tugging him out of the café, much to Sherlock's dismay. Greg let out a breath he didn't realize he was holding in and turned to Mycroft, who was gazing up at him with a sad smile on his face.

"It's okay, Gregory. Go. It would be rude to leave your team to deal with Sherlock on their own," Mycroft commented.

Greg chuckled. "I suppose you're right." He spotted Mycroft's hand resting on the table, and without much thought, Greg rested his hand on top of it. Mycroft inhaled sharply, but he didn't remove his hand from beneath Greg's. "I... I'll call you, okay?"

Unable to form sentences, much less words, Mycroft nodded. Greg gave him a warm smile, and he patted his hand before striding out the door, presumably back to the precinct to retrieve his car. Mycroft sat there for a few minutes. _How did this happen? He must've found out from Gregory, but how? He doesn't break into his flat, at least not often, and they barely talk outside of work. Gregory doesn't even call Sherlock about cases! He always calls Watson – wait. Calls... Phone! It must've been Gregory's phone! Sherlock may not break into his flat, but he might pickpocket him from time to time. And knowing Sherlock, he most likely did when Gregory aggravated him, which would be a lot. And we planned this date a week in advance, so Sherlock had plenty of time to plot. Goddamn it, how could I be so stupid?_

Mycroft boiled over it for a few moments. Finally, a genius idea popped into his head, and he pulled out his mobile. Dialing a few digits, he raised the phone to his ear as he waited for the person on the other end to pick up. "Anthea? Please arrange for a car to drop me off at Baker Street. I have some... brotherly responsibilities that I must attend to."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading the first official chapter! as always, please leave any constructive criticism you may have for me, and have a wonderful day/night!
> 
> \- rosaline


	3. The Legwork

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Mycroft decides to be an intrusive and scheming git

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heyo! It's been a while, hasn't it? Well, I've come back with an update (finally). Hope you all enjoy!
> 
> \- Rosaline

Mycroft stepped out onto the damp gray concrete, politely thanking the driver before completely exiting the vehicle. Baker Street was quaint, but not somewhere he wanted to be at the moment. He sighed, remembered that his mission overruled his hatred of legwork, and walked up the steps to apartment 221B. Much to Sherlock’s chagrin, Mycroft had copied John’s house key a while ago, thus allowing him access to the duo’s home whenever he pleased. And right now, Mycroft was very much pleased to visit the place his little brother and his partner called home.

Thankfully, Mrs. Hudson was on one of her highs tonight, and Mycroft got in undetected. He would’ve anyways, but it was much easier when she used her morphine. She wasn’t very fond of him, for reasons that will not be disclosed, and it was very hard not to tell her to shut up (although he did once, again to Sherlock’s disapproval). And with Sherlock and John gone, his search could be done undisturbed. He twisted the doorknob, entering the room for the millionth time (though he would never admit that). Per usual, the room was covered in dust, random experiments, and case files that were most likely all solved. A stack of newspapers covered the coffee table, all of them displaying his little brother on the fronts with that stupid hat of his. _Of course Sherlock would only keep those_. As much as Sherlock tried to play modest, he was slightly narcissistic, and he enjoyed being right most of the time. It didn’t help that John loved to sing his praises, too. _Oh, that arse’s ego doesn’t need to be raised any higher than it already is._

Moving directly to Sherlock’s laptop, he typed the annoyingly long password into the thing, impatiently waiting for the system to unlock. Sherlock thought he was so clever, but he always forgot (or ignored) the fact that Mycroft was smarter than him. His password was too easy. _For someone who says that love is a disadvantage, he definitely doesn’t believe in his own words_. Though “hamishjwatson” in binary code was arduously difficult to type without managing to fall asleep, it at least was comprised of only zeros and ones, and the laptop finally showed Sherlock’s blue desktop after two seconds. Mycroft pulled out a black flash drive and inserted it into the USB port, letting the history-recovering program on it run its course. Sherlock was smart enough to clear his web history in every way he could, but nothing could stop Mycroft’s powerful government programs from finding what he didn’t want found.

Mycroft scrolled through the many results that came up. _Hm, that’s all useless. YouTube? My, my, brother. What crap has John gotten you into? Oh God, and that’s all porn. Definitely nothing of interest there. His website comes up pretty frequently, though that’s probably just him being a narcissistic bastard and checking to see if his dreadful articles have gotten any more views. More YouTube, some more porn, a visit to his bank account page — his bank account page?_ Mycroft followed the link, entered the login information, and surveyed the transactions. Sherlock had enough money to buy frequently without facing financial debt, but he rarely spent large amounts of money. Well, money in general. John bought most of their necessities, so Mycroft was quite shocked at a transaction Sherlock made a month previous. _2499 pounds? For what?_ A closer glance at the transaction showed that Sherlock made the expensive purchase at—

“A jewelry shop?” Mycroft muttered, his brow furrowing. “What the bloody hell would he be doing—”

He stopped (as did his heart, most likely). _Oh my God. He wouldn’t._ Closing out of the current page and returning to Sherlock’s web history index, Mycroft clicked through the YouTube links. Video tutorials for folding serviettes, ironing suits, cooking shepherd’s pie, and kneeling on one knee without ripping a pair of trousers — all proving one thing. _He’s planning on proposing to John._

Sherlock and Dr. Watson’s romance was hardly a secret to Mycroft. They clearly thought they were being subtle about their inability to keep their hands off of each other, though, somehow, it seemed as if Mycroft was the only one who picked up on the almost literal cloud of sexual tension that suffocated everyone (him at least) within a ten-mile radius of the two. _Dear God. I really am living in a world of goldfish. How can no one see it?_

It all started about eight months after Sherlock came back. John had forgiven Sherlock for the most part by then, but he was no longer engaged to Ms. Morstan, or whatever name she went by these days. During Sherlock’s absence, Mycroft had upheld his brother’s request to watch over John, and once he got word that the doctor had found himself a companion, Mycroft had researched everything about the woman (though Mycroft at first had expected a man). It wasn’t too challenging to discover her dark alter ego, but he wasn’t worried. She hadn’t caused any trouble since changing identities, and she essentially had no friends, so the partnership was safe in his eyes. It also put a little less pressure on Mycroft’s shoulder to protect John. After all, he did have a well-trained assassin at his side. But like all secrets, Ms. Morstan’s other life was uncovered after she had put a bullet in Sherlock, and John’s trust in Mary had deteriorated since he found out. Three more months passed before John and Mary amicably agreed that they were better off as friends, and as a result, John moved back to Baker Street. It was only a month later that Sherlock and John had engaged in more-than-friendly behavior.

Since he had taken down the cameras and microphones after John left, Mycroft reinstated the surveillance system at the extremely dusty flat before Sherlock came back to London. The cameras were once again expertly hidden in new places, bugs were attached to different surfaces, and the separate monitor that Mycroft kept in his office and used just for the surveillance feed was turned on for the first time in months. While Mycroft still feared for his brother’s safety, he looked at the feed less often than before because he had faith that John would take care of his little brother for him. And, of course, on the one night that Mycroft decided to do a random check on the two, he caught John taking care of Sherlock in the most disturbing and scarring way known to the MI6 agent. Mycroft was absolutely certain that his team thought he had gone mental when he muttered, “What’s been seen cannot be unseen,” for two whole days following the incident.

The romantic turn that Sherlock and John’s relationship took became more painstakingly obvious after that tragic day. Mycroft now watched the feed frequently (and left when he saw the beginnings of sexual intercourse), and when he dropped by their residence for his monthly unwelcomed visit, he observed Sherlock’s eyes lingering on John’s face for a millisecond too long, and John’s on Sherlock’s bum when the trenchcoat-loving man played his violin and stared out the window. He had also seen a fragment of a condom wrapper underneath the coffee table and had ever since adamantly insisted on standing at the entrance when John gestured for him to take a seat on the couch. Despite the number of times Mycroft coincidently turned on the livestream and caught the doctor and his brother in a compromising position, he was lucky enough to witness their first “I love you’s,” their first hug, and their first dance as a couple. And although he was never a big fan of romance, his heart warmed significantly at the sight of Sherlock being truly happy. The only other time Sherlock had been even remotely close to as elated as he was now was when Redbeard was alive, which was over thirty years ago. Suffice to say that John Watson was the miracle that everyone — especially Sherlock, Gregory, and himself — were waiting for for a very long time, and now, Sherlock was going to make his devotion to John official.

An intense warmth spread to his whole body, cloaking him in a mixture of joy and giddy. He chuckled, and his lips upturned into a wide grin. “Sherlock’s proposing. Oh my God, Sherlock’s proposing.”

He stood up and twirled gracefully onto the couch, too happy to care about the previous interactions Sherlock and John had on it. _Past events, be damned. Will’s proposing._ Still in disbelief, he pressed his palms to his cheeks and shook his head. “My little brother’s bloody proposing. After all these years, he’s finally found someone who makes him happy.”

As much as Mycroft hated to admit it, he’d wronged Sherlock too many times to count. The first major offense was when he allowed his parents to put down Redbeard. Unbeknownst to Sherlock, their parents had actually gone to Mycroft to ask for his advice on the matter. Stupidly thinking that his brother would be okay knowing that Redbeard died in peace, he agreed with his parents on euthanizing the bloodhound, and after he walked Sherlock to school, he accompanied his parents to the vet. It was only when the hound’s eyes fell shut that Mycroft realized his mistake, and he hugged the unmoving animal, crying and begging whatever deity would listen to forgive him. But it was too late. He had to go pick up Sherlock and see the heartbreak in his eyes when his little brother noticed that Redbeard was gone. It didn’t take too long, though, for Sherlock to tell what had happened. They could read each other like a book, and the overwhelming guilt in Mycroft’s eyes was more than enough evidence for young Sherlock.

The next few months of utter silence from Sherlock were tough. He still had to take his brother to school every day, and the absence of the “Bye, Myc!” that was thrown over Sherlock’s shoulder after Mycroft bid him adieu tore Mycroft apart. And when Sherlock finally spoke to him again three months later, after Mycroft said his daily “Behave, Will,” the venom in Sherlock’s voice when he snapped, “It’s Sherlock, you murderer,” crushed Mycroft from the inside out. Eventually, the coldness receded a bit, and Sherlock would converse with Mycroft from time to time, but nothing was ever the same after that. Their conversations were so rare that Mycroft nearly called him “Will” instead of “Sherlock” during each of them. Mycroft got better with it in time, but he still missed calling his little brother by his given name. It reminded him of the old days, the better days, when everything was still okay and friendly between them. The only person Mycroft ever cared about was his brother, and he longed to have that special connection with him again.

The second major offense was when he left for university. When Sherlock was just four, he’d made Mycroft promise not to leave him, and they’d hooked pinkies on it. Mycroft didn’t think much of the childish oath while deciding on his college since Sherlock was still hostile towards him, and when he announced at dinner that he’d decided on the University of Oxford, he was utterly confused as to why Sherlock immediately ran from the table. He went after Sherlock of course, and when he found his little brother curled up under the tree in their back garden, he sat down next to the eleven year old. He remembers the encounter like it was yesterday.

**FLASHBACK**

Mycroft glanced down at his brother. _He’s hugging his knees, and his head is buried in his arms. He obviously wants to be alone. But when have I ever respected his wishes? His hair is tousled more than usual, indicating that he raked his fingers through his hair repeatedly. The right cuff of his button-up is damp. Is he crying?_ A quick check on the movement of Sherlock’s shoulders confirmed his suspicions. _But why?_

“Sherlock—”

“Shut up, Mycroft. Just shut up,” Sherlock interrupted, not bothering to raise his head. He kept his face firmly planted in his arms, and his words came out muffled. Mycroft could hear the cracks in his brother’s voice, and the temptation to wrap his arms around Sherlock was strong, but he fought against it.

“I just want to know what’s wrong,” Mycroft stated helplessly, tears welling in his eyes as he watched his brother break down. Sherlock whipped his head up, locking his furious gaze on Mycroft.

“You,” he growled, the crying and anger deepening his voice an octave. “You’re what’s wrong.”

Mycroft drew away from Sherlock, gaping at him. _Something wrong with me? No._ “Me? What did I do?”

“Don’t fuck with me, Mycroft, you know damn well what you’re doing.” Sherlock spat, the profanity rolling off of his tongue like it was second nature.

“Language, Sherlock,” warned Mycroft.

A menacing laugh came from Sherlock, and the younger of the two shook his head. “I don’t give a bloody fuck about my language. And you obviously don’t give a bloody fuck about promises.”

Mycroft froze. “Promises?”

Staring at their mother’s flower garden, Sherlock put on a bitter smirk and explained. “Mhm. Don’t you remember? We were sitting — right here, actually — and I made you swear not to leave me. And you promised. Damn it, Mycroft, you promised! And here you are leaving for Oxford.”

The tough facade Sherlock had on crumbled with each word, and by this point, Sherlock had returned to crying. With sad doe eyes, Sherlock faced Mycroft. He sniffled before going on. “You’re leaving me. Something you said you’d never do.”

The whole situation started to make some sense to the older Holmes, but he was still baffled as to why Sherlock held that promise so close to him when he’d barely spoken to Mycroft in the past couple of years. “I thought you considered that oath a piece of rubbish after Redbeard.”

“A promise is still a promise, brother mine,” stated Sherlock, who turned his eyes to the ground.

“Sherlock, we haven’t had a full conversation in years. You avoid me most of the time. How was I to know that you still valued that promise?” Mycroft questioned, trying to keep his tone from raising. _What right does he have to get mad? He’s ignored me. He can’t blame me for believing that he couldn’t care less about some juvenile swear._

“We’re still brothers, Mycroft. I would’ve thought that you still valued that at least,” Sherlock muttered, looking up at his brother with tearful eyes. Mycroft was rendered speechless. Instinctively, he moved to embrace his brother, but Sherlock flinched away from his arms.

“Brother—” Mycroft began.

“Just leave, Mycroft. It’s what you do best.” Sherlock got up from his spot and tried to head back to the house, but Mycroft grabbed his arm.

“Sherlock—” began Mycroft, desperately attempting to twist Sherlock around to face him.

“Let go of me!” Sherlock shouted. Mycroft continued, speaking over Sherlock.

“Hear me out—”

“No! Now let go of me.”

“Sherlock! Listen—”

“I refuse to listen to liars.” said Sherlock snidely. The statement sent a painful pang to Mycroft’s chest, but he resumed his pleading.

“Will, can you—”

“It’s Sherlock!” Sherlock roared, ripping his arm free. He swiveled around sharply, stomping back to Mycroft. “Sherlock Holmes! Will died a long time ago, brother, if it’s even fitting to call you that anymore.”

With his index finger, he jabbed his older brother in the chest roughly. “Stay the hell away from me, Mycroft. I don’t want your apologies, or your empty promises, or your presence in my life.” Sherlock’s icy blue eyes glared at Mycroft as he menacingly whispered his final sentence.

“Get out of here, you bastard, and never come back.”

**END FLASHBACK**

The third and final major offense was when he took his brother’s words to heart and didn’t return home for another six years. Mycroft had completed his college education in three years, but instead of going back to his family, he opted to take up a job in law enforcement. The British government had caught wind of the young mastermind with the intelligence of all of the well-known geniuses combined, and they were instantly curious to see his skill. Of course Mycroft nailed the impromptu job interview that took place outside of one of his final classes before graduation, quickly deducing that the questioner had a secret smoking habit, four children, and a doting wife before going to his next class. And it came as no surprise when the interviewer showed up at his flat that night with his superiors, who were eager to meet him. They offered him the job on the spot, even though he technically didn’t have all of the required credentials, and Mycroft accepted, sealing his fate.

Everything after that night was a whirlwind. Unknown to Mycroft, the HMG arranged for a car to pick him up at seven o’clock in the morning the next day to bring him to Buckingham Palace. Apparently he had missed the part about starting immediately while deducing that two of his bosses were gay and had relations with each other. After hastily getting ready, he was (again) informed that he was to finish his classes online. Because of the nature of his new work, he wouldn't be able to attend his graduation, and he would have his diploma mailed to him. It was depressing, and his parents were disappointed that he wasn’t able to go to his own graduation ceremony, but the job paid well, and Mycroft was actually excited about this new opportunity. _Finally, my talents are being appreciated._

The first few weeks were rather arduous. Desperate for help on old cases that had gone unsolved for years, his employers shoved numerous files in his face 24/7. It wasn’t a problem to Mycroft, though, who figured most of them out within five minutes. His co-workers were stunned, and because of his abilities, his workload only got heavier. He was a busy man, and his free time was sparse. When he did have open time, though, he stayed at home and did extra work. His parents invited him to come and visit often, but Mycroft decided to heed Sherlock’s words, and he declined each offer. The unnecessary work that he did at least allowed him to climb the ranks fairly quickly. In only a year, Mycroft had surpassed his superiors, becoming the most powerful man in Britain under the Prime Minister.

Thanks to his connections, he could now broaden his horizons a bit, too. Although he was often drowned in work and superfluous meetings with foreign dignitaries, he still found time to test his capabilities. He tried freelancing for the CIA, which turned out to be a major success. The U.S. president himself dropped by his hotel room before Mycroft departed from the states, thanking him for all of the deeds he had done. From there, Mycroft only went further. News of his assistance to the American government spread, and he was getting calls from different corners of the Earth. He was recruited for various projects and missions, each of them ending better than the last. Suffice to say that he was at the top of his game. While he was basking in glory, though, Sherlock wasn’t holding up so well.

Sherlock, being the bloody fool that he was, got himself involved in drugs. How his little brother managed to get his hands on the substances, Mycroft wasn’t sure, but he would personally see to it that the dealer’s head was bashed in. Since he had deflected every one of his parents’ suggestions to come home, Mycroft was unaware of his brother’s disposition until he begrudgingly led a huge drugs bust at an abandoned factory near his family’s home. According to his agents, Isobel Morris, a drug lord wanted all across Europe, was hiding out in the factory, hence Mycroft’s needed presence. It was apparently Mycroft’s job to apprehend the criminal and make sure she stood in front of the Court of Justice, so he was dragged out of his comfortable leather chair at home and to the drug house. The mission had gone smoothly, and his target was caught, but so was his brother, someone he was not expecting to see at the factory at all.

Under the pseudonym Shezza, Sherlock was arrested and charged with being in the possession of illegal drugs, along with about thirty other people found in the place. Mycroft, who was interrogating some of the druggies, came across Sherlock last. After an intense yelling from Mycroft, Sherlock was cleared from all charges and taken back home, much to their parents’ delight. While they were disappointed in both of them (Mycroft for not visiting, and Sherlock for using drugs), Mr. and Mrs. Holmes welcomed their lost children back with open arms and a nice batch of biscuits. Sherlock took his portion of the treats and holed himself in his room, but Mycroft stayed downstairs and chatted with his parents about his work, his practically nonexistent social life, Sherlock’s recovery plan — everything. The last words spoken between them before Mycroft headed to bed resounded in his brain as he stared at the bedroom ceiling.

“What do you think caused Will to do something like this?” Mycroft asked, his hand slightly shaking as he washed his teacup. His parents hesitated, looking at each other.

Mrs. Holmes cleared her throat and spoke in a soft voice. “You left.”

Back in the present, Mycroft shuddered, tears unexpectedly pooling in his eyes. Taking a few deep breaths, he regained his composure and sighed. “That’s the past, you bloody fool. All in the past. Focus on the present. Will’s okay. He’s happy. And he’s found someone who makes him even happier, someone who won’t fail him. He’s found love. And that’s wonderful.”

Suddenly, an idea hit him. Like lightning from the sky, a brilliant plan dawned on him, and within seconds, he devised a scheme so hilarious and slightly cruel that it rivaled even Moriarty’s horrendous crimes. With a shit-eating grin, he removed his flash drive from Sherlock’s computer, destroying all evidence that showed that he was in the flat. He took his leave afterwards, a small bounce in his step as he entered his black car. Though he tried to hide his excitement, his strange behavior didn’t go unnoticed by Anthea.

“Sir? Are you alright?” she asked, her eyebrow raised. Mycroft sent her a small grin.

“I most certainly am, Anthea.”

“Care to enlighten me on what genius idea you’re currently brewing in your head there?”

Mycroft leaned back in his seat, something he never did and spoke. “Sherlock’s proposing to Dr. Watson.”

Anthea smiled broadly at that, but then tilted her head in confusion. “But how does that have anything to do with you, sir?”

Mycroft shrugged. “It doesn’t have anything to do with me, honestly. However, I do think that revenge is in order.”

“For your ruined date?” Anthea responded teasingly.

“Yes, for my ruined date.” he huffed in annoyance.

She laughed. “So what are you going to do?”

“I’m going to simply shut down every attempt he makes at proposing to our dear Doctor. I already have a surveillance system installed at their residence. Also, I put a tracking device on Dr. Watson. Obviously, Dr. Watson must be there in order for Sherlock to propose, so as long as I know Dr. Watson’s whereabouts, I’ll be able to interfere.”

Anthea whistled. “That’s a very large plan for a very small grievance.”

“He embarrassed me in front of Gregory, _and_ he crashed our date. It took me a week to clear up enough time for our dinner today.”

“With all do respect, sir, it took _me_ a week to clear up your schedule for your lovely date.” Mycroft glared, but she soldiered on. “Plus, who cares if Sherlock invited himself along? The date still ended on a positive note. Isn’t that all you could ask for?”

Mycroft pondered this for a minute before shaking his head. “Nonsense, Anthea. He’s my brother, and it is my duty to make his life difficult.”

His lips turned upwards as he stared out the window. _The game is on, brother mine. The game is_ on _._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that was the update! As always, please leave me any constructive criticism you may have, and have a lovely day/night!
> 
> \- Rosaline


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